


Be It Done to You

by royalflush (kadotoriku)



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Marvel, Spider-Gwen (Comics)
Genre: Earth-65, Gen, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Hurt Matt Murdock, Katana, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, matt murdock whump, murderdock, there are those that whump peter parker like it's their life calling, whumping matt murdock might be mine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:47:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24874879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kadotoriku/pseuds/royalflush
Summary: Power corrupts people, inflates their heads. It’s only a matter of time before it does to him too—this isn'tfreedom. Matt traded the restrictive life of a mob boss's lawyer for one as the head of the snake. He'll be constantly on guard, unsure of who to trust.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 18
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Banned Together Bingo 2020





	Be It Done to You

**Author's Note:**

> Spider-Gwen's... alright, I suppose. I haven't really gotten SUPER into it but I am super into [Earth-65!totally-not-the-Kingpin!Matt](https://marvel.fandom.com/wiki/Matthew_Murdock_\(Earth-65\)). This takes place around the start of Edge of the Spiderverse #2 but has semi-spoilers for Matt's past in Spider-Gwen 2 #28.
> 
> Written for the [Sleep Deprivation] square on my Bad Things Happen Bingo card, and my [FREE SPACE: Giving up] for Banned Together Bingo.
> 
> Please read the tags and be warned.

" _When he entered the house, the blind men came to him, and Jesus said to them, 'Do you believe that I am able to do this?' They said to him, 'Yes, Lord.' Then he touched their eyes, saying, “According to your faith be it done to you.” And their eyes were opened_."

— Matthew 9:28-30

+

_It's lonely at the top_. Matt stretches a hand towards the window overlooking the city's many skyscrapers, flattening his palm on the cold bulletproof glass.

Although he can't see it, he's sure that the city skyline is beautiful. A sight to behold, one that he'll never truly get to experience. Not without a miraculous scientific breakthrough of some sort. While he can reach out with his senses and feel the heat radiating off of the shining electronic billboards, as well as the listen to the bustling chatter of the regular folk on the streets doing their business, visually _seeing_ something is an experience that can't be replicated nor replaced.

If he closes his unseeing, bloodshot, tired eyes in an ingrained habit of concentration, Matt can remember the texture of Fisk's expensive blazer as it was slowly stained by the blood pouring out of the stab wound, the sound of his last breath leaving his panicked lungs, and the metallic taste of the blood that Matt spilled in a symbol of his point of no return. His ears can still traitorously hear the phantom noises of Fisk's desperate heart after Matt drove a blade into it days ago. It pumped furiously in an attempt to keep its body alive, but alas nothing can bring the former Kingpin back from the dead.

By killing Fisk, Matt has practically been handed one of the highest seats of power in New York.

All of what was once Fisk's, all that _could_ have been Fisk's, is now Matt's. He's taken it all, the influence and the connections. Just like that, he had reached out and did the impossible. Toppled over the untouchable king, seized the empire and is in the process of turning it into something _greater._

He looks down on the people frolicking about below and can't help but reminisce, wondering what it would be like to be an ignorant soul, an easily forgotten face among the crowd, a _mundane_ person going about his day in a never-ending cycle of work and sleep.

Matt has never been so high.

...Nor has he felt so low.

Power corrupts people, inflates their heads. It’s only a matter of time before it does to him too—this isn't _freedom_. Matt traded the restrictive life of a mob boss's lawyer for one as the head of the snake. He'll be constantly on guard, unsure of who to trust.

There's nowhere else to go.

All that lay ahead is **blood** simply for the sake of **blood**.

He can only go forward and up. Climb higher and higher, build his own Tower of Babel on the foundations laid down by Fisk. He’ll rise above the likes of superheroes, of idols, and of the most powerful of men. He’ll build up towards the heavens and reach past the stars into the vast unknown.

And who’s to say that there’s a god ready to strike him down?

His faith in a higher being has long been smothered to death and beaten to a pulp by... everything, really. Matt can have anything material he wants in the world. He knows that not only _would_ he do it all again, but that **_no one else_** can stop him.

Policemen are either on his payroll or scared shitless at his name. Hell, there’s no doubt that even the most law-abiding person in Hell’s Kitchen has heard of the Kingpin. It’s an open secret that they can’t acknowledge because of his well-built protective armor of plausible deniability.

He tightens his grip on his cane with both hands. If there is a Heaven and Hell, he’ll go straight down into the fiery pits for all his sins. It should scare him, dying is often portrayed as a terrifying thing but...

Matt feels calm.

A loud sigh echoes through the empty room before he unsheathes his katana slowly. No sound can be heard as the metal is exposed to the air. He takes it out silently, with the precision and care taught to him by his former Master and praised by the trainers that left him onto the city’s doorstep like a bottle of milk.

One might assume his decision to be one made from lack of sleep, but since when has he ever slept well, really? Slept without the paranoia of an intruder? Of a spy? That someone will drive a knife into his heart or shoot a bullet through his skull while he’s in dreamland?

The lower half of his sword’s case clatters onto marble flooring.

Foggy said once that the lively lights can serve as a distraction. That they can keep the most tired of men awake with their blaring urgency. Maybe Matt will get to experience it once he’s gone, see colors once more instead of the fiery world crafted by his radar senses. There’s not much else left to do in the world for him, anyway.

No more purpose. Nothing else to strive for. Not a single cause to rally behind.

Matt raises the blade, gripping onto the handle with both hands, and points it towards his abdomen. Somewhere in that area is an artery, a connection to his aorta. He’ll be dead within minutes.

Not many people visit him—it’s more of him that does the barging, the invading. Whoever finds him will be the most unfortunate and treated to the sight of a lifetime, he can only hope that it causes mayhem and pandemonium, something _exciting_ to look forward to for once.

 _No more stalling_.

He buries the blade in his stomach.

A gasp unconsciously escaping his lips, feeling the katana enter and exit through his lower back. His senses explode with pain, overwhelmed. He pushes down the urge to suppress the burning sensation, wanting to savor his suffering like the fucking masochist he is.

He drops to his knees.

Matt extends his other senses to feel the soul of city he loves so much, that he made _safer_ in a sick, twisted way. New York isn’t the nicest place there is, but it gave him a _home_ and a _family_. A small part of Matt that he thought he extinguished all those years ago _hopes_ that he’ll see them soon, that they’re proud of him, that they still love him despite everything he’s done.

_Thwip! Thwip!_

Then, he hears the coming of a young, bright, _powerful_ heart. Someone flies past his window, propelled forward by thin gooey strings. His senses paint a picture of a teenager, the wind pushing back the hood of their skintight outfit. Matt focuses on the lingering afterimage left behind as the kid zooms away far too quickly. He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it though, as the darkness edging on his muddled mind swoops in for the kill.

Before he falls, he does something he hasn’t for years:

Matt prays.

**Author's Note:**

> I swear, I don't hate Daredevil and his other incarnations—though this and [the superior vision](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24790294) might imply otherwise. He's such a human disaster no matter his incarnation, alright? It just... happens. ~~*sweats as I look at my Bad Things Happen Bingo card*~~
> 
> ...And I may or may not have the hots for Murderdock. Please. I both want to punch and kiss that smug bastard's smirk off his face. But in this fic, I just want to give him a hug. This is basically a what-if where Matt doesn't [see Gwen swing by the window _before_ he does the deed](https://2.bp.blogspot.com/6i60bvM52LNueHmsnRmpVNJriD-HKAG6fp-MNWJYY2lxB7Jz3-jRyYdJYhGjWuEXbs5Ohr7Az-nnfyzEQ6tGFGIVvcXzeHqAVjFiPm1lBCUCEAfroxwDCRnajcQBMVII1y7FCSJLQw=s1600).
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please feel free to leave a comment on what you think.


End file.
